


i'm tracing the letters of your name (spell it out for me)

by fivesecrets



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-09 09:36:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17999366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fivesecrets/pseuds/fivesecrets
Summary: The tinyMwritten in emerald green smoulders slightly as Mario uncurls his fist.Or, five times Mario tries to find his soulmate & the one time his soulmate finds him.  Featuring Mario being completely oblivious, André just trying his best (while being a little shit), and a German national team who finds the whole thing hilarious.





	i'm tracing the letters of your name (spell it out for me)

_prologue: june 3rd, 2016_

Mario's woken by a painful sensation emanating from his left hand.  It burns, and he clenches his fist tight against his chest, willing the pain to dissipate so he can go back to sleep in peace; they have a game today and it wouldn't do for him to be exhausted before he's even stepped on the pitch.  On the other side of the room, André is still fast asleep, snoring gently as the pain courses through Mario's blood, blazing hotly into his skin before subsiding completely.

The tiny **M** smoulders slightly as Mario uncurls his fist and it takes him a moment to place it, a moment of his eyes sweeping over the sharp points of the letter before his mind catches up and he dawns on him what this is and what it means.

It’s his twenty fourth birthday and his gift is the receival of the one clue he will ever have.  The one clue that some people are born with, the stories of babies screaming at the sensation of the mark common knowledge, and the one clue that no one dies without, even if it’s shrivelled and tiny and to others, the lack of name is pathetic and heart-breaking, the emptiness a mark of a life unfulfilled.  The one clue, the tiny letter that scribes itself on the palm of the left hand that accounts for all fulfilment.  Mario stares at the **M** incessantly until the image sets in the back of his mind.  The only weak thought he can form is that the colour is very beautiful.

“Morning,” André mumbles from the other bed, “happy birthday.”

“André,” Mario whispers, turning his head to look at his teammate who’s almost invisible inside the cocoon of the bedsheets, “it came.”

André pulls himself up at this, eyes red and puffy as his face contorts into a frown, “what came?”

“My soulmate.  I’ve got the letter.” Mario shows his left palm as proof, watches the way his friend’s expression shifts from confusion to amusement as he reminds Mario that the letter is invisible to everyone else until the soulmates find each other.  André knows, he’s met his soulmate and she’s perfect for him, smart and sensible in all the ways Mario’s teammate decidedly isn’t, but she loves André and that’s enough for the both of them.  It wasn’t enough to prevent the spike of jealousy Mario felt whenever he caught a glimpse of **Anna** emblazoned across Andre’s pale skin, however.

“It came on your birthday,” André smiles, “at least it’s a birthday present you wanted.”

 _‘It’s ironic,’_ he thinks, because for all his jealousy and all the times when he’s stared at his hand, willed for the faintest traces of a letter to start forming and for the famous tingle of the famous burn to elicit itself onto his skin, he’s scared.  He’s managed to lie to himself for twenty-four years and now he’s got the mark which writes over all his lies.  Dawn is leaking through the curtains as normal, the pipes are creaking with hot water like they always do, but Mario feels as though the Earth has turned on its axis _and_ decided to start spinning clockwise and the unfamiliarity of it all forces him to sit down before his legs give out.

“It’s okay,” André says, and Mario is suddenly aware that his roommate has been speaking to him the whole time, “it just means your soulmate is someone you’re going to be in close contact with soon.”

Right.  Because the mark appears when you’re about to spend a considerable amount of time close with your soulmate, and Mario’s in a hotel room in the national training centre, and the Euros start next week.  He puts his head in his hands as he recounts this to André, sighing deeply when his friend assumes that Mario’s soulmate must be someone on the team.  The thought strikes him just as André says it, and his sighs turn into a whine when he realises that he’s going to have to search for his soulmate within a group that contains Thomas Müller and Leroy Sané in it.

“What’s the letter?” André asks.

“M.” Mario answers.  He’s already sick of the letter that gives itself to his own name.

“Who in the squad has a name that begins with M?”

“Manu, Marc-Andre, Mesut,”

“Mats and Mario Gómez.  And you.”

If past Mario could’ve seen the way current Mario’s insides knot together at the thought of having to try and pursue teammates during a tournament, he knows he would’ve clenched his fists, ran back out onto the training field and forgotten all about his worries of not having a mark.  What makes it worse is the fact André is looking at his with an expression that is probably nothing short of calculating, and definitely not short of mocking.  He cringes, already knowing his friend is going to have the time of his life trying to humiliate him and dreading some of the comments he’ll make.

“I’m happy for you though, finally discovering that you actually have a soulmate.  I was starting to worry that you might not actually have one.” André quips, “I will miss being able to tease you about being forever alone, too.”

“I still have to work out who it is,” Mario says darkly, “it could be a girl we’ll meet in France for all I know.  What a lot of good it would be then.”

“Mario,” André says, “you know it doesn’t work like that.”

‘ _I wish it did,’_ Mario thinks as he trudges towards the door to go down for breakfast, _‘then I know I wouldn’t humiliate myself.’_

* * *

_one: **m** anuel neuer_

Mario wonders if it’s written on his face when he follows the team out for training that day.  He’s _sure_ Thomas and Jerome are looking at him more than usual, birthday aside.  Jogi conducts them as they sing to him, an atrocious affair that has Mario wanting to find his headphones and turn up some heavy metal music to the highest volume to bleach his ears of the memory, but as the group is disbanding for training, Manu comes up to him and ruffles his hair slightly, a faint smile on his lips.

Mario’s eyes subconsciously follow the goalkeeper as he walks over to his secluded area of the training field alongside Köpke, Marc-Andre and Bernd, the latter two bickering slightly.  He’s heard Manu’s many complaints about their seeming inability to be any sort of civil and immediately feels sympathetic for his plight as Bernd pushes Marc-Andre over a stray ball Julian has kicked in their direction.  Mario positions himself to keep Manu in his peripheral vision as he languidly passes a ball between himself and André, watching to see if the goalkeeper even throws him a second glance.

While the outfield players are stretching, Manu looks up from his place between the goalposts and Mario feels himself heat up as he sees Manu’s eyes fall on him, going an impossible shade of red when the goalkeeper waves at him.  He opens his left palm and waves back, willing the name to write itself so he can get this fucking embarrassing mission to find his soulmate over with before the team catch on and rib the life out of him, watches as Manu breaks out into a proper smile.  Behind him, Thomas starts laughing, and Mario looks over in confusion.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Thomas says airily, waving Mario away and going back to focusing on his stretches.  Mario can see Jonas and Toni talking quietly, glancing slightly at him and he hopes to God it’s just coincidence and not some plot for them to embarrass him on his birthday.  Jonas catches him looking at them and blushes slightly, ducking his head as he swallows, and Mario doesn’t miss the uncharacteristic fondness in Toni’s eyes as he watches him.

He’s distracted by some yelling coming from the goalkeeping session, the whole team’s gazes snapping over to the corner where Köpke is screaming at Marc-Andre and Bernd.  Mario pinpoints the exact moment the team loses interest; because it isn’t Manu doing the yelling (which is always way funnier) and because Marc-Andre and Bernd being annoying (and in blindingly obvious love) when they’re together is pretty much par for the course at this point.  Jogi stands in the centre of the team, pinching his nose and shaking his head and Mario can almost see him thanking the heavens he didn’t decide to become a coach with goalkeeping as a speciality.

They finish training and their coach blows his whistle repeatedly as they start with the drills, beginning with passing and then moving onto set pieces.  Mario bends a free kick directly into the top corner and has to put on a front of dismissive acceptance as the team applaud, because his shot was painfully reminiscent on someone he’s tried so hard to forget, instead turning his gaze back to where the man who could be his soulmate is stuffing balls into a bag and preparing to join the rest of the team in the main session.

Mario doesn’t want his soulmate to be Manu.  The goalkeeper is nice enough, and Mario likes him a lot, but he’s never been someone who strikes Mario as being a potential boyfriend.  He doesn’t think the two of them have much in common, but after seeing the obnoxious happiness his friends who have found their soulmates experience, he begrudgingly decided to accept the system for what it was and knows it won’t get it wrong when it’s finally his turn.

They’re split into three groups to practice penalties and Mario decides it’s safer to opt for Bernd’s team because scoring a penalty past Manuel Neuer is not the way to make him like you.  André appears next to him then, ball wedged lazily under his arm and a shit-eating grin on his face.

“So, Neuer?” André says.  His voice sounds incredibly disinterested for how much Mario knows he is enjoying his humiliation already, and he’s not even been properly humiliated yet.  Great.

“Yes,” Mario replies, trying to make his exasperation with André clear, “he ruffled my hair and I thought I might as well get this over with.”

“He ruffled your hair?!” André explodes into laughter, causing most of the team (and a very unimpressed Jogi) to look their way.  Mario can _feel_ his cheeks burn as Manu looks at him and he swears to get revenge on André as soon as he fucking can because he wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole as his friend struggles to compose himself.

“Schürrle!” Their coach bellows and it’s Mario’s turn to snigger as his friend snaps to attention, “pull yourself together and focus!”

The teams split off and begin practicing their penalties, Mario slicing a neat one past Bernd that earns him a shout of approval from his coach.  As he’s walking back to where his team is gathered, he sneaks a glance at Manu, wanting to see if the goalkeeper has heard their coach.  Instead, he sees Manu dive to his left and save Thomas’ shot with ease, listens to the easy jibe Manu responds to Thomas’ insults with.

He’s not jealous, because he’s not in love with Manu, but he can’t help feeling weird when he watches the two of them. 

He feels a small stabbing pain in his palm and rushes to look, like he was about to witness the rest of the inscription before his eyes.  But it never comes, despite the glow of the glittering green.

Mario decides green is his new favourite colour.

He puts another penalty past Bernd.

☆

When Jogi commences the training game, Mario’s in half a mind not to score, because he’s facing off with Manu and doesn’t want to faith the wrath of the goalkeeper later.  But he also wants Manu to notice him, so he smiles to himself when he sends Manu the wrong way with a fantastic volley.  It’s a great goal, and Jogi’s nodding approvingly.  After the terrible season he’s had, he’s hoping he’s coming back on form and he can’t wait for it.

The goal is apparently so good that Manu doesn’t even get pissed at him, even going so much as smiling as Mario sits down next to him at team dinner that evening.  He can hear chuckles coming from where André is sitting and notices his friend with Thomas, looking at Mario with something like amusement in their eyes and it takes him a lot of composure not to hurl the bread roll in his hands at them.

Manu chats to him politely all the way through the meal, answering all of Mario’s many questions patiently (although Manu should be used to this, the Bayern players constantly teased Mario for his incredible capacity for questioning).  It’s only when Toni calls down from one end of the table, where he’s seated next to a slightly embarrassed Jonas, for the bread basket, and Manu reaches out to pass it down instinctively, does Mario catch a glimpse of something written on his hand.

His heart sinks.  He knows that because it’s visible, Manu must have found his soulmate.  He tries not to make his disappointment palpable, but André still must pick up on it, because he asks Thomas to pass him the jug of water and Mario can’t miss the **Manuel** written on the other man’s hand, not when he splays his hand way more dramatically than necessary.

He heads up to bed earlier than normal, feigning a headache to divert the confused glances he receives from several members of the team.  André follows him not ten minutes later, diving onto Mario’s back as Mario groans into the pillow in humiliation.

“Thomas figured out what I was doing, didn’t he?” Mario says, voice muffled by the pillow.

“He did,” Andre answers, and Mario wants to slap him for the obvious amusement in his tone, “but he didn’t really care, just said he’ll enjoy watching you go around the team and ‘making a fool of yourself.’” Mario groans again at the reminder.  “He says that he’s got a feeling you’ll find them eventually, though.”

“Thanks for the confidence.  Thanks for your _wonderful_ support by the way.”

“Excuse you, without my help you wouldn’t have half of the information I have supplied you with.”

“I could’ve just searched it up.”

André just laughs at him, brandishes the **Anna** on his palm as a reminder and Mario looks down at the **M** written on his palm, traces it with his forefinger once, twice, before pulling himself into the bathroom to get ready for bed. 

_**M** does not stand for **M** anuel Neuer._

* * *

_two: **m** ario gómez_

He and André are two of the last people to arrive down in the hotel lobby on the morning of their flight to France.  They’re only five minutes late, but Basti already looks like he’s about to blow a blood vessel (Mario snorts at the uncanny resemblance to the look on Fips’ face practically all the time and figures it must be some sort of impersonation), ranting at them under his breath and their only spared by the appearance of a flushed Manu and a proud looking Thomas.  Mario doesn’t want to think about the reasons behind _their_ appearances at seven in the fucking morning, thank you very much.

The usual jokes are still being thrown around as the team file onto the bus, only slightly lacking the bantering inconsequence from the expectation of being the current world champions.  André sits down behind Shkodran and Leroy and Mario flops down into the seat next to him, almost instantly falling asleep because no matter what anyone might say (Mario’s reminded of a few mornings a few years back in hotels with a roommate who loved to wake up early), seven is far too early to be functioning adequately.

He’s disturbed from his half-slumber by a slight cough.

“You’re not saving this seat for anyone?” Mario Gómez asks.  Mario shakes his head and drowsily watches his teammate fall into the seat on the other side of the aisle.  It’s only when he meets his eyes and the older one smiles at him does Mario have a dangerous, dangerous thought.

_Maybe the fact we have the same name is something to do with us potentially being soulmates?_

Sleeping is suddenly a lot harder after that.

They make it through the airport with only minimal fuss, probably because half the team haven’t consumed the gallons of coffee they live on yet, Mario included.  Marc-Andre does almost lose his ticket and Bernd mocks him relentlessly, which in turn only subjects the Leverkusen goalkeeper to roasting, from those who are awake enough to care, about his obvious crush.

Mario is one of the final ones to get on the plane and he’s relieved when he spots André in an aisle by himself.  He climbs in next to him and answers the knowing look with, “Gómez,” before André’s face contorts into a laugh and Mario turns to find the other Mario stowing his backpack into the overhead locker and collapses into the seat.  He tries not to groan aloud when it dawns on him that he’ll be sitting in between the person he’s going to try and analyse, and André, for the next two hours, with nowhere to escape.

It’s a small blessing when he looks over and notices André fast asleep, head pressed against the side of the plane, before they’ve even taken off.  At least he won’t be subjected to awkward comments and knowing looks while he inevitably humiliates himself.

The plane is hurtling down the runway when Mario notices the other Mario stiffen and grasp onto the armrests so tightly his knuckles turn white. 

“Are you okay?”

He doesn’t get a response immediately, apart from the older man’s face turning even paler as the plane leaves the ground and starts ascending.  Mario’s ears pop and he feels the familiar yet indescribable feeling of take-off, his stomach swirling as the plane leaves Berlin and enters the morning sky.

It’s only when the plane has levelled out and the seatbelt sign removed does the older Mario turn to him and answer.

“I am now.  Sorry, I just really don’t like take-off.”

Mario nods, face scanning the older man.  He’s never really noticed before, but Mario is very attractive, dark eyes flitting between long eyelashes and gentle smile that belies his age and the apparent ‘protectiveness’ Mario so often hears his older teammates talk about.  Mario doesn’t know how to feel about the fact that the other Mario is seven years older than him, never really thinking he’d be attracted to anyone more than three years older (he shudders slightly at the memory of someone three years older) but the older Mario is _very_ nice to look at.  Mario is already set on his mission to find his soulmate, even with the obvious embarrassment, so he doesn’t deny himself the chance.

“Are you ready for the tournament?” Gómez asks him, voice oddly shy.

“Yeah,” Mario says, “I need to score another winning goal.”

“I was in Fiorentina when you did that,” the older Mario smiles, “celebrated right in the middle of a pub full of Italians rooting for Argentina.”

“Brave move.  Did they not try and ambush you for it?”

“They were Fiorentina fans, so no, luckily for me.  Any other scenario and I’m sure they would’ve, though.” He mock-shudders, “Do you have any predictions for the Euros?”

“I think we’ll have a penalty shootout, but I don’t know who against.”

The older Mario nods and turns to the unopened book in his hands but Mario sees André still dead to the world and seizes his opportunity.  With the two of them in relative seclusion on the flight (most of their teams’ attentions caught up in the shenanigans going on around them, which seems to involve a lot of insults and thrown objects), Mario knows trying to work out of the other Mario is his soulmate when the rest of their team is distracted is the best, least embarrassing, way forward.

He sees Jonas’ head rest on Toni’s shoulder across the aisle from them and restarts the conversation.

“Do you think there’s something going on between the two of them?” He forces a smirk as he gestures to the pair.

“Maybe.  Toni’s always been very fond of him but he’s dumb and Jonas wouldn’t confess in a million years.”

“If they’re soulmates, they just have to wait until they both privately realise?  Then they’ll have each other’s names appear on their hands and there won’t be any embarrassment at all.”

“Maybe,” the other Mario says again, eyebrows creased like he’s concentrating very hard, “but Jonas seems like the type to deny it to himself forever.”

Mario watches the way the man in question slumps further into Toni while he sleeps and wonders if he’s really as likely to be in denial as the other Mario thinks.

“Have you met your soulmate?” He asks suddenly, and it feels like ripping off a plaster.

“No.  All I have is his initial.” The older one opens his left palm to Mario and then blushes when he remembers the other can’t see it, “the little **M** that haunts my life.”

The shock reels over him like he’s been pushed into a freezing lake.  He stares at Mario with the thoughts of ‘what if he’s my soulmate,’ and _wills_ the older man to think the same so he can get this over with, but then the older man looks at him strangely and continues speaking.

“I’m not your soulmate, Mario.”

“How did you know I even have an **M**?”

The older one smirks slightly, but dodges his question, “I know who my soulmate is.  I’ve had this tattoo for years.  The man was just too oblivious to see it, and I wasn't there to witness the best moment of his life.”

“Who do you think it is?”

“I know it’s Miro.  I just need to make him realise it.”

Mario can’t even bring himself to be disappointed as he asks the older one how he plans on getting the legendary goal-scorer to deduce that they are soulmates.

“It’s getting to the point where I might have to go up to him and straight up ask.  I’ve had this mark since 2008 and it’s written in his _eye colour_ and I’ve doubted it so many times, tried to rationalise with myself but I’m so convinced it’s him.”

“You should,” Mario says as the seatbelt sign clicks in for landing.  The flight has only been short, but long enough for Mario to cross off another teammate from his list _and_ hear about some of the old stories of the team.  “Let me know how it goes when you do.”

“Count on it,” the older one smiles as the plane descends into France and Mario is filled with the same paradox of nerves and excitement he felt as they landed in Brazil.  As André stirs beside him and gives him a questioning look, slumping back against his seat when Mario shakes his head slightly, Mario tries to decide if he should call off the task completely.

It’s only the memory of twenty-four long years without a soulmate that spur him on.

_**M** does not stand for **M** ario Gómez._

* * *

“Was it embarrassing?” André says the moment the door to their hotel room falls shut behind them.  “Tell me everything that happened.”

Mario grumbles and collapses face-first onto the nearest hotel bed, ignoring the question.  But André is nothing if not persistent and he immediately jumps on Mario, prodding him until Mario reluctantly relents.

“You’re so annoying,” he groans as he shoves André off his back, casually flipping him off as he beams at him, “we were making small talk but then I noticed Toni and Jonas acting like a couple and we got onto the topic of soulmates.  He told me he had the letter **M** and I thought he meant me but then he started talking about Miro and what’s been going on between them since 2008.” Mario replies blandly, although his façade breaks as André looks almost scandalised at the new information.

“Mario and Miro?”

“Don’t act so surprised, Miro was slightly downcast for the whole World Cup because Mario wasn’t there until we won, and he broke the scoring record.  That was a good tournament--,” Mario trails off when he sees André give him an indecipherable look, but his friend doesn’t press him further and changes the subject.

“You were saying about Jonas and Toni as well?”

“I mentioned that they were looking strangely close.”

“Jonas is so lovely, and Toni is annoying.” André says slowly.

“Toni becomes less annoying when he’s around Jonas.  Next time they’re together, observe them.  Jonas fell asleep on his shoulder and honestly I think Toni would’ve slapped anyone who tried to disturb him.”

André makes noises of disbelief, “there’s no way I’m believing this until I see it for myself.”

Mario doesn’t have the energy to respond, so he buries his head in his pillow and wills André to leave him alone.  He does for a while, Mario feels the wind brush over his skin from where his roommate has gone out onto the hotel balcony, but then André’s fundamental senses of being annoying remerge and Mario is disturbed by another pillow being chucked at his face.

“Seriously though,” André says with a tone that belies the aggravating action he used to get Mario’s attention, “how is the search going?”

“Shit,” Mario answers truthfully, “the only thing I’ve learnt is that I’ve subjected myself to about six years’ worth of teasing already and I’ve only chased two teammates.”

“You know that your soulmate inscriptions won’t necessarily appear at the same time?”

“Great,” Mario deadpans, voice still muffled by the pillow, “more chance for humiliation.  I could be chasing someone who hasn’t even got their mark yet.”

“It’s worth it though.  Trust me.” André uses the opportunity to show Mario the name on his hand as a reminder again, and Mario’s eyes fall onto the **M** on his palm that wouldn’t disappear no matter how hard he willed it to.  “You’ll find them, and they’ll make the teasing worth it.”

“Doubtful,” Mario mutters and he’s not sure if he means the teasing or the chances of him finding his soulmate altogether.

* * *

_three: **m** arc-andre ter stegen_

Mario withholds his search to find his soulmate and focuses on the tournament as Germany pass through the group stage with relative ease.  The team are chattering incessantly about the win over Northern Ireland that qualified them, praising Mario Gómez for his goal (the other Mario is making it his secret mission to continuously send Mario knowing smirks) until suddenly the noise is stopped by a horrifying cry of pain.

Everyone’s eyes turn to find the source and fall on Marc-Andre, who is clutching his fist in agony as he yelps.  Some of the team panic immediately, given he is the reserve keeper and his hands are very important should something happen to Manu, but those who remembered experiencing the sensation of marking stay relaxed.  Mario’s eyes fall to Bernd, who is smirking into his glass of water but the attraction in his eyes is blaringly obvious.

Marc-Andre’s inscription finishes writing itself and he unclasps his fist and for a moment everything seems okay – until his eyes widen, his face whitens and he’s running out of the dining room, footsteps echoing on the wooden floor.

“I’ll go to comfort him,” Basti says immediately.

“No, you’ve found your soulmate and he’s obviously very distressed at what he’s seen.  Who was the last person to get their mark who hasn’t found their soulmate yet?”

Mario plots to stay quiet and silently begs André to keep his secret for him, but it’s futile when his roommate yells his name and all eyes turn to him.  The only coherent thought he has is Thomas is very bad at concealing his smirks.

“I’ll go.” He says, pushing his plate away as his chair scrapes along the floor, “anyone coming with?”

“Jonas!” Leroy nominates, much to the embarrassment of the left back (and apparent disappointment of Toni), “he’s the kindest person on this squad, Marc-Andre wouldn’t feel overwhelmed speaking to him about it.”

Jonas looks like he wants to say something but swallows at the unwavering attention of the entire team.  The man stands up and joins Mario, before the two of them exit the dining room as the chatter reignites behind them.

Mario glances back and that’s _definitely concern in Bernd’s eyes._ He’s so caught up in his plan to tease the third goalkeeper later as he absent-mindedly follows Jonas into the elevator, he almost misses the left back’s soft voice.

“I got my soulmate tattoo recently.”

Mario snaps to attention, “did you?”

“Yeah,” Jonas admits, eyes falling away from Mario’s face, “It’s a little **T**.”

Mario smiles.  “You know it’s probably Toni, right?”

“I hope so,” Jonas blushes, “but I don’t think he’s received a mark yet or that it isn’t a **J** because he only seems to treat me like a friend.”

The elevator pings and disturbs their conversation as they step out onto their hotel floor.  Jonas reveals that he knows which room Marc-Andre is staying in (much to Mario’s relief, as he doesn’t want to go banging on all the hotel room doors and warning Marc-Andre of their imminent arrival), but just as the shy player goes to knock, Mario stops him.

“Just before we overwhelm Marc, I think you should know that Toni definitely doesn’t treat you like you’re just a friend to him.  On the flight he had his arm around you and looked happy to be with you… that is an inconceivable emotion to see on Toni’s face.” Mario quips.   He expects a laugh, but Jonas blushes deeper and knocks on the door awkwardly.  As he does so, Mario tries not to think about the letter Marc-Andre's name begins with, the same letter forever scribbled on his hand.

“Go away Bernd!” Marc-Andre’s voice rings out, sounding choked and forced, “I’m not in the mood for your teasing!”

“It’s not Bernd,” Mario says, “it’s me, Mario Götze and Jonas.”  There’s a fumble and suddenly the door cracks open.  “Let us in and we’ll help you.  We know what you’re going through.”

The crack gets wider and the two of them enter the room.  Marc-Andre’s eyes are blotchy and red, and he swipes at his nose as he takes deep breaths.  Jonas leads them over to the bed and sits down cautiously on the end, looking nervously up at the stricken goalkeeper.  Mario’s suddenly very glad the left back was nominated to help him, because he’s worried that without his calming presence, Mario would’ve been slightly too forceful or approached the delicate situation in the wrong manner and only caused to upset Marc-Andre more.

“I got my soulmate mark,” Marc-Andre sniffles out before he dissolves into fresh sobs.  It’s pointless trying to coax anything else out as the aftershocks course through him, Jonas patting his back while Marc-Andre clenches his left fist shut.  Mario tries to help him breathe evenly and eventually his sobs reduce to choked noises that subside eventually as the sharp shards of shock vanish.

“What is it?” Mario says softly, channelling the look on Jonas’ face.

Marc-Andre shakes his head and swallows violently and for one terrible second it looks like he’s seconds away from breaking down again, but then he takes a deep breath and recomposes himself.  He’s staring at his hand like it’s coated in blood and Mario is _scared_ to find out what has evoked this reaction from him.

“What letter is it?” Jonas whispers.  Marc-Andre evidently doesn’t hear him because he doesn’t even flinch, eyes still fixated on the crevices of his left palm.  Mario tries to prod but the goalkeeper has entered a trance and everything he can think of trying is futile.  “You can tell us, it’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal!” Marc-Andre says suddenly, causing the shy left back to jump and apologise profusely.  “This can’t be happening because I _know_ who it’s on about, but I don’t want to believe it.”

A silence falls over the room.  Mario can see Jonas’ brain working overtime and knows the older man is coming to the same conclusion that he is (that also involves the fact Marc-Andre is _not_ Mario’s soulmate, although he expected as such and hasn’t concerned himself with the fact the goalkeeper lives in Barcelona), and he almost feels sorry for Bernd.  The silence expands and fills the room until it’s burst by a knock and the unlocked door opening.

Jonas looks smitten when Toni walks in.  Mario watches as his eyes flick from his hand to Toni’s face and back again, watches as the smile grows and Toni coils over, hand pulled into his stomach.  Jonas takes the pain well, smile grinning as the **Toni** writes itself on his hand, Mario’s sure of it.  He can’t even bring himself to be bitter when the left back stands up and looks at Toni whose eyes are _shining,_ and holy shit Mario didn’t think he’d ever witness that.  Toni holds his hand up wordlessly and Mario sees the brief flash of **Jonas** before the man in question throws himself into Toni’s arms and presses the tiniest of kisses against his lips, before apparently remembering they have an audience and turning an appropriate scarlet.

“S-Sorry, Marc-Andre,” Jonas stammers, “do you still need me, or are you okay with Mario?”

“No, no,” the goalkeeper says, voice happy despite the tear stains on his cheeks, “go and enjoy it.”

Mario resists the urge to say _use protection_ because Jonas would probably die right in front of him and he can’t be fucked to deal with Toni berating him for the rest of his life, so he settles for watching the newfound soulmates exit the room, hands clasped tight together.

“That could be me.” Marc-Andre whispers.

“Me too, if only I knew who mine was on about.”

“What letter do you have?”

“ **M**.  You?”

Marc-Andre sighs, but answers him, “ **B**.”

“Bernd.”

The goalkeeper nods.

“It’s obvious he’s head-over-heels for you too.  Now stop being dumb and go and get your man.”

“I-I can’t do it.  Not here,” the goalkeeper admits, the faintest tinge of red on his cheeks, “can you get him for me?”

Mario curses him as he enters the common room, calls out Bernd’s name and sends him to Marc-Andre’s room as he slumps down next to Thomas on one of the sofas, ignoring the casual jeers the older one is sending his way.  They’re halfway through the tournament, and the only two candidates he has left for his soulmate are Mesut and Mats.

 **_M_ ** _does not stand for **M** arc-Andre ter Stegen._

* * *

  _four: **m** esut özil_

Mario watches Toni as Jonas steps up to the penalty spot.  The man tenses and almost buries his head in Thomas’ shoulder, unable to watch as the timid left back hammers the ball past Buffon.  Mario races onto the field, notices as Toni is the first to reach his boyfriend and begins the pile-on.  By the time Mario gets there, sandwiched between Mesut and Joshua, he can see Jonas and Toni in the centre, the left back’s eyes glittering with joy as they giggle at each other.  The stab of pain that ricochets through Mario guts him harder than he expects. 

He tries to ignore the wistful feeling that hangs over him as the team enter the changing rooms, singing (awfully) at the top of their lungs and it’s almost identical to the scene post-match in Brazil (even down to the person who missed it) and not even the strangled screeches of Basti’s singing can break Mario out of his uncharacteristic trance.

They’re through to the semi-finals.  They’re about to play France in France.  Mario should not be feeling like this.  He should be enjoying the experience, celebrating with his far too loved-up teammates (he doesn’t think Toni’s stopped kissing Jonas for more than two seconds since they got back to the dressing room) and not thinking of the swelling feeling that _something isn’t right._

He puts it down to not having found his soulmate yet with the tournament being almost over.

He tries to slip off to his hotel room once they all collapse back into the lobby after a bus journey filled with even more abhorrent singing (Mario wonders how Thomas’ voice isn’t worn out yet) but André catches him and there’s no escaping his friend’s malevolent grin.  He’s dragged into the common room and shoved onto one of the plush sofas, smiles at Mesut as the older one sits down next to him.

“Congratulations on the goal.” Mario smiles.

“Thanks.  Missed a penalty though.” Mesut says, “thank fuck it didn’t matter.”

“Swings and roundabouts,” Mario remarks offhand, the thought of his soulmate still lingering in the back of his mind and decides that now is as good a time as any to try and test the waters with Mesut.  Like with most of his other teammates, he doesn’t want it to be Mesut, doesn’t want to live through the constant torment the rest of his teammates will subject him to if he drives a ridge through Mesut’s apparent future relationship with Sami.  Who thankfully isn’t in the room right now.  “How’s London?  What’s it like playing under Wenger?”

“London’s good and Wenger is a great coach.” Mesut replies, but it’s clear his mind is elsewhere.

“Do you go sightseeing?”

“Sometimes.  I tend to go outside of London though – England’s so much more than just London.  It’s a shame it’s full of English people.”

Mario snorts louder than he should at that and blushes as he tries to ignore the knowing looks Jérôme and Mats are throwing at him.  He’s just about to ask Mesut some more questions when Sami walks in, eyes scanning the room pointedly and the way Mesut stiffens next to him is tangible. The central midfielder spots them then, sees the way there’s five of them crammed onto a three-person sofa and begrudgingly takes his seat across the room.

“Where’s your favourite place to travel to?” Mario asks.  Mesut’s gaze snaps back to him like he’s forgotten he was there (Mario wouldn’t be surprised if he had) but it almost immediately rolls back to Sami as he replies.

“I like York.  It’s very pretty there and not too far from London.”

“What’s your training sessions like?”

“Probably not too different from yours at Bayern.”  His eyes are still on Sami as he responds to Mario’s next two questions with a patience reserved for saints as Mario desperately tries to lure his attention back from the ridiculously attractive Juventus player.

“You’re trying to work out if I’m your soulmate.” Mesut says suddenly, so matter-of-fact Mario can’t even conjure up embarrassment.  “You’re a nice guy, Mario, but if you’ve got an **M** you really need to think about who it is, because it isn’t me.  I’ve just worked out who mine is.”

Mesut gets up from the sofa, leaving Mario stunned and the Arsenal player’s words ringing in his mind.  He watches as Mesut goes and perches down on the floor next to Sami, stares up at him until the Juventus player looks back at him and there it is, there’s the slow, dawning realisation and Sami’s clenching his hand into his lap while Mesut grins at him.

“This man,” Mesut yells, immediately attracting the attentions of the entire team, “is my _soulmate._ ” He brandishes his hand, and **Sami** is scrawled there clear as day as the two pull each other into a kiss that is more celebratory than passionate to belie the years the whole team has waited for this moment.  Sami doesn’t even blush at the “finally,” comments coming from approximately 98% of the people gathered in the room.

Mario, however, blushes scarlet at the “unlucky, Mario!” Thomas whispers in his ear as he passes.

 **_M_ ** _does not stand for **M** esut Özil._

* * *

  _five: **m** ats hummels_

They lose to France and all Mario can hear is the celebrations reverberating outside their silent bus.  He’s sitting next to André whose face is again pressed against the window as he ignores Mario, palm upturned, and Mario has to look away because the **Anna** written in cerulean threatens to knife through his already fragile heart.  His eyes fall on Jonas, who’s pulled Toni into his chest as the older one lets out small sobs of disappointment and it’s such an intimate moment Mario has to look away.  Mesut and Sami’s hands are clenched tight together as they stare into space, Thomas is consoling Manu quietly and Mario Gómez is quietly speaking on the phone to someone.

Mario’s painfully aware of the number of soulmates surrounding him and it hurts more than he realised. 

As they disembark the bus, the one member of the team Mario hasn’t tried it with comes up to him and silently places an arm around his shoulders, leading them back into the hotel and away from the gleeful cameras.

The team disperse with barely so much as a cordial goodnight, and Mario finds his hotel room silent, André already almost asleep in the other bed as Mario lies down and stares at the ceiling, willing himself to sleep and not managing it.

The room is pitch dark and Mario’s eyes focus on the tiny green light of the fan, flickering slightly as his eyelids get heavy but his mind doesn’t switch off.  His phone says it’s gone one in the morning when he finally gives up and clambers out of bed, steps out of the room silently to avoid disturbing André and almost instinctively finding himself at Mats’ door.  He knocks once, twice, knows the defender was lucky enough to get his own bedroom, but he’s still surprised when the older man opens the door and doesn’t look drowsy in the slightest.

“Mario?  What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?” Mario’s not prepared for how fucked his voice sounds, and he can tell Mats isn’t either, from the way the other player’s face blows with concern.  He opens his door immediately and Mario is too exhausted to bring himself to be ashamed when he flops on his bed.

“What’s up?” The mattress sinks as the defender perches himself down awkwardly.

Mario’s tired.  He’s so tired of trying to find his soulmate and failing, so fucking exhausted of the small, light-hearted jibes constantly thrown his way, spent from the meticulous detail he’s had to try and worm other people’s soulmates out of them.  He looks at the bags under Mats’ eyes for comfort and starts speaking.

“When my soulmate tattoo appeared, I asked André why it came when it did, and he told me it was because I was about to spend a lot of time with my soulmate.  I assumed that meant my soulmate was on the team, which is why I’ve been trying to hit on everyone who’s name begins with **M** while we’ve been here.” Mats smirks slightly, and Mario knows the older members of the team definitely gossiped about him.  _Great_ , he thinks.  “You’re the only one left and I think it might be you because I’ve just agreed to transfer back to Dortmund.”

“I’m coming to Bayern.” Mats says, and it takes a moment for the words to digest but then the meaning of Mats’ words hits him and he’s reeling.  He left Dortmund for Bayern, Lewy followed him, but Mats going too grounds him in a way he never expected.

“Why?”

“It felt a bit like coming home.  I’m not your soulmate too.”

Mario nods, he figured as much.  André’s words ring in his mind and he tries not to think about the sinking feeling of having tried to discover his soulmate for a month and got no further than he did when he began. 

 “Do you know who it is?”

Mats shakes his head, “I don’t have a mark.”

“What about Benni?” Mario asks yet he instantly regrets it when he sees the pain in Mats’ eyes.

“It’s not Benni.  I wish it was.”

“How do you know?”

“He came in telling me he found his soulmate about ten minutes after I realised I was in love with him.  He showed me **Lisa** written across his palm in gorgeous brown and took me to meet her like my heart wasn’t shattering in my chest.  It was then I realised that soulmate marks are written in the colour of their eyes… the resemblance between the writing and her eyes was not a trick of the light.  We went out to the Oktoberfest and I wanted to get so drunk and forget that I was with them, but then they snuck off and I still don’t think I’m over it.”

Mario swallows hard against the lump in his throat as Mats tries to calm himself down.  He’s so rarely seen the defender like this, with his walls crashed down and it’s such an antithesis to the Mats he knows, who’s collected all the time and it hits Mario that this heartbreak probably _caused_ that.

“Did you ever tell him?”

“No.  God, no.” Mats replies, voice dangerously thick, “I couldn’t do that to him.  He was so happy when he met her.”

“What happened between you after that?”

“Nothing changed.  He didn’t know there was any reason that anything should’ve, so I couldn’t go and act like I felt.  I was best man at his wedding and hated every second, because every time I looked at him I kept thinking that he was meant for me.”

“You’ll find who is meant for you.” Mario says weakly.  “I’m sure your mark will come soon.  You’re moving to Bayern, you’re going to be spending a lot of time around new people and you’ll be able to forget all about Benni…”

“You don’t forget about the first person you ever loved.” Mats replies and it’s so _real,_ “but thanks Mar.  I’ll try my best.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“It happens.” Mats smile is sad and Mario hates himself for unknowingly causing Mats to think about Benni.  “When I meet whoever it is, I just need to remember to thank them for saving me from this heartbreak.”

“When was this?” Mario asks, because he can’t stop himself.

“Me and Benni?  Right after that parade in Berlin after when won the World Cup.”

Mario purses his lips and nods because he _remembers that day so well_ , from everyone who was there, to everyone who wasn’t, to his mother who wouldn’t stop crying, to the random girls that wouldn’t stop smiling at him.  He thinks back and remembers the glimpses he caught of Mats and Benni laughing as Mats danced with the trophy, the gold shining on his forehead and Mario remembers being convinced they were soulmates.

He never knew Benni broke Mats’ heart hours later.

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry I brought all this back up, too.”

“Don’t be.  I guessed you were trying to figure out who your soulmate was from the way you were acting and honestly, I’ve been waiting for you to come to me.  It felt good to finally tell someone about Benni, too.” Mats’ smirk falls.  “We’ve known each other for so long though.  If we were soulmates, my mark would’ve appeared long ago.  Yours would’ve too.”

Mario doesn’t know what to say to this, so he gets up and leaves, nodding a goodbye at Mats and quietly re-entering his room.

 **_M_ ** _does not stand for **M** ats Hummels._

* * *

 André’s awake when the hotel room door shuts with a silent thud behind him. 

“Where were you?”

“With Mats.  He’s not my soulmate.  None of them are.  We’re both going to Dortmund with nothing to show for it but stories for you to embarrass me with.”

André looks disappointed at the revelation and the fact he doesn’t even smirk at Mario’s accusation leads the younger man to believe maybe André’s as upset as he is.  “What are you going to do?”

“Give up.  Pretend I never got my mark.  I can live without knowing who my soulmate is.” _Lies.  He’s lying and they both know it._ “It’s not like I’m going to find my soulmate in Dortmund unless it’s Ginter or Bartra.”

“They both have soulmates.” André says thoughtfully, and Mario doesn’t even question how he knows this.

“If my soulmate was there when I was there before, then why didn’t it appear all those years ago?”

“Sometimes it’s weird.  If it knows you’re going to leave, then it won’t appear.  Maybe it just knew they you wouldn’t be staying at Dortmund but that you’d come back, so it chose now to appear.” André’s eyes are shining at him like something’s just dawned on him.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” André’s voice is giddy, “just be prepared to be ribbed about all the failed conquests of this break.  You’ll work it out soon enough.”

Mario groans.

* * *

_plus one: **marco reus**_

The familiar wind ruffles his hair gently as he bends down to pick up one of the cones after the training session.  He’s only been back for a couple of sessions, but the feeling of belonging was instant, when he’s surrounded by the hills and the lights of Dortmund coming from the city in the warm August evening.  André appears beside him and plops a cone on his head that he grumbles at, and then there’s another pair of boots and there’s Marco, smiling at him as he takes the cone off Mario’s head and lightly brushes a stray piece of hair out of Mario’s eyes.

They’ve been apart for so long but it’s like nothing has changed between them, seamlessly fitting into their old dynamic and Mario’s glad André is here, he really is, but he only truly has eyes for Marco.  Even so, he can’t deduce the meaning of the calculated looks his friend keeps throwing at him ever since Marco ran over and swept him off his feet in a hug at his first training session back at Brackel.

They place the cones back into the bag and yell their goodbyes at Tuchel who’s deep in conversation with one of his assistants as they head back into the changing room.  Most of the others are already in the shower when they arrive, but Mario has no insecurity about stripping off and joining them.

When he’s done and dried, most of the team are leaving the complex, chatting noisily about some event or other and Mario finds himself left alone with Marco and André.  The latter is talking to them about something, but Marco’s wet hair is falling into _his_ eyes now and it’s incredibly sexy.

“Mario got his mark recently.” André says and Mario cringes internally because he knows where this is going.

“Did he?” Marco’s face lights up and Mario tries not to think about the fact Marco’s name begins with **M** because he doesn’t want to hope.

“Right before the Euros started.  He spent the whole tournament systematically hitting on our teammates.” André laughs, and Mario hates the way Marco pats the bench next to him (he loves the smile on his friend’s face though.  It’s like the sun and Mario never knew why Marco calls him Sunny when he looks like that), with a smirk like he’s waiting for André to give him more details and Mario wants the Earth to open up and swallow him.  “It began with Manu, he tried to flirt with him at dinner until he saw **Thomas** written on his hand.  Thomas had a good laugh about that one.  He tried to get with the other Mario on the flight, but he admitted he thinks his soulmate is Miro.  Next it was Marc-Andre, who then overdramatically discovered he was in love with Bernd,”

“Figures.” Marco snorts.

“Jonas and Toni also got together.” Mario adds to lengthen his respite from the embarrassment for another minute.

“JONAS AND TONI?” Marco screeches, “THAT’S ADORABLE!”

“They are.” Mario smiles slightly.

“Next,” André brings the attention back to him, “he tried to get with Mesut, but he only had eyes for Sami and the two of them made out right in front of everyone.  Finally, he spoke to Mats after the loss to France, but Mats doesn’t even have a soulmate yet.”

“I know.” Marco says, almost sadly.

“Well, now that I’m done humiliating Mario, I’m off.” André leaves without another backwards glance.

The tension in the air is tangible as Marco’s eyes drift to him, impossibly green and shining slightly as he smiles at Mario.  Mario can see the jibe on the elder’s tongue, but it never comes, because Marco is suddenly staring at him, looking at him with an intensity that burns harder than Mario expected as he watches Marco’s green, green eyes.

Green eyes.  His eyes break away from Marco’s for just long enough to look at the deep green of the **M** on his hand.  When he looks back, the fondness in Marco’s eyes floors him.

“You were looking for people with the letter **M.** ” Marco whispers, more for his own benefit than Mario’s and if there’s any doubt Marco isn’t his soulmate it fades when his palm starts to heat up.  “I can’t believe it took me this long to realise.”

“Me neither,” Mario’s voice is just as quiet.  “I feel like such an idiot.”

“I’ve felt like that since you’ve left.”

“What?  Why?”

Mario’s skin burns as he pulls his fist into his chest, watches Marco wince and mirror him.  He feels deliriously happy, like everything has fallen into place and it’s like coming home, _better_ than coming home because his old best friend is his soulmate and he’s such a fucking idiot for never realising it but it’s not like Marco was any better.  His thoughts work overtime as the scribe burns the letters into his hand before fading and he uncurls his fist.

**Marco.**

Marco holds his palm up.

**Mario.**

Marco has him against the wall before he can even take a second to work out what’s going on, his soulmate kissing him and he’s kissing back and this is better than all the other kisses Mario’s ever had combined because nothing tops the feeling of Marco’s body pressed flush against his, feels the little grooves of his own name as Marco’s palm runs teasingly down the back of his neck as the older kisses his slightly exposed collarbone and Mario couldn’t run if he wanted to.

“I should’ve tried harder to make you stay.” Marco says suddenly and it’s disorientating for a moment until Mario figures he’s just answering his earlier question.

“I’m sorry I left.”

“You’re back now.”

“I won’t leave you again.”

Marco pecks his lips, once, twice, whispering his question with everything he has and Mario answers with a long kiss that has Marco breathless and panting when they pull apart.

“That was cheating.”

“I didn’t know there were rules.” Mario raises his eyebrows teasingly, smirks to himself at the unmistakable cloud of lust that rolls into Marco’s eyes.  It’s the most beautiful thing Mario has ever seen, and he has to pinch himself, has to distract himself tracing the inscription of Marco’s name across his palm before he can regain the composure to look up at the other man.

“I’ve waited so long for you, you can’t do me like this.” Marco whines, and one glance down makes Mario’s whole body hot.  He’s not even sorry when he places a teasing hand on Marco’s erection when he kisses him, giggling when the older one pushes him away.

“You’re evil.” He says, mock-sulkily.

“I’m touching you with a hand that says your name on it.  I’m allowed.”

“You’re lucky you’re gorgeous.”

Mario doesn’t go home that night. 

As Marco cuddles closer, sound asleep, Mario glances at the name written on his palm one last time before curling up in the crook of his soulmate, _boyfriend’s,_ neck.

**_M_ ** _stands for **Marco Reus.** And Mario couldn’t be happier._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! ♡
> 
>  
> 
> _tumblr: alexander-arnolds.tumblr.com_


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